There is only one woman who has the daunting ability to sit back and observe when things emit a sour note.

That woman is my best friend Tutu. Never will you hear her speak out of turn. She opts for the higher road and maintains the status quo, often starting her sentences with: "I could be wrong but ..."

If Queen Victoria spent an evening with Tutu, she would take notes on etiquette.

Meanwhile, the jaded tiger that I am, I often just check things out and speak my mind because men work in mysterious ways. History has taught me to not only let the veil of truth come crashing down, but that it's better to regret the things said than the unsaid.

And this is why I think she's falling on someone else's sword. But I could be wrong.

This is how things started. There was this boy from a very, very, poor background. His family struggled to get anything on the table. They were penniless. In fact, I hear that their grandmother had the same advice every time her pension arrived.

She wore the wolf's skin and told them to go and beg while she sucked on hidden sweets under her reeking blanket. Observing this, the boy decided he was going to bide his time and leave for the city. And then the boy, who had become his granny's arch enemy, miraculously got himself a job as a filing clerk and bought himself a one-way ticket to Jozi.

Here he toiled under the cruel eye of a one-eyed taxi owner who wanted his taxis to be as clean as an ICU ward.

Then he made friends with the taxi owner's son who, though he was the same age as the rural boy, looked incapable of doing anything for himself. He feared going to town on his own. He had never been inside a train and had never tasted brandy. He would learn all these milestones under the rural boy's authority. Instantly, they were inseparable. Even the jealous maid who had taken on being the taxi owner's assistant role in cruelty, had to agree that theirs was a match made in heaven.

All was working out well for the boys until someone got things mixed up. The bundu boy started embracing the notion that they truly were inseparable. So much so that when his friend started having female friends, he sulked like a neglected puppy.

They had reached the dating age and the poor boy, being short of good looks and the money to fare well in the dating game, was not taking it kindly. In his eyes, theirs was a union sealed with a ... (only he knew what exactly).

If he could do it without too much noise, he would bark at the girls that his friend kept bringing home when Raleithloana was not home. Like a wounded dog, he watched on as his friend made waves in the dating scene.

If only Raleithloana could see this, he thought.

Years later, with that experience behind him and living the life, he formed a friendship with a bloke who would soon get engaged. Now this is where my best friend comes in. While we have lived through the recent years blaming their differences on innumerable excuses, it turns out that this guy should take the rap.

He drives the wedge between them and will stop at nothing to see them separated. It turns out that he's not the only one. Some guys just like their friends a bit too much. It's freaky and it doesn't mean they are gay.

So, considering this observation, I told it to my girl the way I saw it. She thinks I'm bipolar, but I know the smell of a rat. But then again, I could be wrong.